


Here I Am

by Swindlefingers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Memories, nolstalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/pseuds/Swindlefingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Pre-romance: Charlotte’s worked with the Railroad for almost a month now, she’s still searching for Shaun.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Here I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-romance: Charlotte’s worked with the Railroad for almost a month now, she’s still searching for Shaun.

 

* * *

 

Under a full moon, Charlotte stands in the street in front of their house.  _Her_  house now, she supposes. Or, at least, what remains of her house. 

She’s passed by it many times on her patrols of Sanctuary. She holds her breath every time she does. It’s an old superstition she remembers her sister telling her when they were kids as they’d walk past the graveyard on the way to school.

Tonight she stops, turns to face her house, and takes a deep breath.

The memories pour out from behind the red door. They break against the front lawn, and roll towards her, swirling around her legs.

She remembers the taste of the hot dogs they ate before the relator brought them here. Nate bought her two, one for her and one for the “bean”, as he was calling the baby pushing on her bladder. The fight they got into over the color of the paint for the outside. The smell of the cardboard moving boxes. Standing in front of all of them stacked up, filled with their things, and trying to figure out when two people had acquired so much  _stuff_. How hot it was the day they moved in, because of course it was. The drives out to the coast. Taking the boat out. Putting together Shaun’s cri-

“There you are,” Deacon’s voice is irritatingly cheerful from behind her. The soles of his shoes scuff against the road as he approaches.

“Here I am,” she mumbles, her eyes locked on the crumbling blue house. Her memories recede, lapping at the toes of her boots.

“Is this…” He stands next to her, his voice gone quiet and soft.

A home? A tomb? A relic? A reminder? Yes. 

She nods.

The memories rise around her, she feels them at her ankles.

“I should… go. You probably want to be alone.” He backs away to leave, but she catches his elbow and he freezes.

“Actually, could you stay? Just for a few minutes.” Her memories rise up to her calves, she can feel them pulling away the ground she stands on. He feels solid, even just standing there, like he’s standing on dry land.

“Listen, I don’t-” he cuts himself off with a sigh. He nods once, taking a few steps back to stand beside her. She lets her hand trail down his arm. She can feel him tense as her rough palm slides into his hand. She needs this, for as however long he’ll let her hold on.

They stand in silence for a few moments as more and more memories wash over her; the friends over for dinner, their first 4th of July party, sunning her pregnant belly in the backyard. When she feels the sand being swept away from under her feet by the ebb of her memories, being pulled out into the sea, his hand is warm and solid and she finds her footing again.

Tears sting at the corners of her eyes, she blinks them away.

Deacon breaks the silence with a quaver in his voice, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Charlotte turns to politely smile, knowing if she accepts his apology with the words she needs to, her voice will break and her tears will fall, and she’s not ready to cry over this. Not yet.

She can’t see the sympathy in his eyes, but she watches his brow crease above his dark sunglasses in the moonlight, and she supposes that’s as good as she’ll get.

“It’s, uh,” he clears his throat, finding his usual flippant tone, “it’s still a pretty nice house, all things considered. It’s got good bones. A little paint, some new windows…”

She chuckles, wet and rough from the saltwater tears she’s swallowed, “That’s exactly what our realtor said.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you-”

“That you’re a two hundred and seventy year old real estate agent?”

“Yep, you got me. I play the long game. Real estate was a lot harder to get into back then. My license is still good actually, didn’t even have to retake the test after the war.” He tips the brim of his newsboy hat. 

She shakes her head. She tries to let go of his hand, to release her anchor, but he takes the opportunity in her loose grip to intertwine her fingers with his. Her stomach tightens.

He shifts his weight on his feet, slides his free hand into his jacket pocket, “I like the color. What’s left of the color, I guess.”

“We fought over that color for two weeks,” She motions to the house with her chin. “I thought it looked cheerful. I don’t think he ever liked it, but it was too much work and money to repaint.” She smiles, “Nate was so proud of this house. I’m almost positive he got up early on Sunday’s just to mow the lawn.”

“Sorry,” she looks down at the dry, cracked asphalt under her boots, suddenly embarrassed that she’d inflicted such an odd, personal story, and shakes her head. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

“Actually,” Deacon squeezes her hand in his briefly. “I kinda do.” 


End file.
